


the four character idiom

by calciseptine



Category: Marvel, Marvel 616, X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: Daddy Issues, Homophobic Language, M/M, Pheromones, S&M, Sexist Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-13
Updated: 2011-11-13
Packaged: 2017-10-26 01:22:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/276996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calciseptine/pseuds/calciseptine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even in the dim light—a reading lamp in the living room is on, casting warm shadows across the masculine furniture and clean, open space—you can see how blue his eyes are. It reminds you of the summer sky when you were a child, when you hiked your cotton <em>yukata</em> up to your bony knees and played with the servants' children.</p><p>You hate being reminded.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the four character idiom

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this prompt](http://avengerkink.livejournal.com/1854.html?thread=540478#t540478) on livejournal's [avengerkink](http://avengerkink.livejournal.com): _Daken/Steve, dubcon/noncon, probably because of pheromones. As if Daken needs a good reason to fuck Captain America._
> 
> For those of you how aren't complete Marvel nerds, Daken is Wolverine's ~~unhinged~~ half-Japanese son. He possesses Wolverine's regeneration mutation and extendable bone claws, as well as pheromone control and a spiffy mohawk.
> 
> [Aaaaaand this information about four character idioms.](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Yojijukugo)

His name is Steve Rogers.

"Such a plain name," you mock idly as you rip the blood-soaked shirt off his chest and toss it aside. It lands over by the leather sofa and stains the soft cream rug. "Tell me, do you like your name?"

The other man doesn't answer. A wet moan bubbles up from his lungs and bursts over his pink mouth; there is blood in the crevices of his teeth from the punch he took when he opened the door and found you. You pull back your fist and bestow another to his nose. The bone cracks satisfyingly beneath your knuckles. His skull smacks against the hardwood floor of the foyer.

"That must sting," you sneer as his unfocused eyes disappear behind thin eyelids, fine burnished lashes resting like a broken bird on the swell of his cheeks. He touches his nose with clumsy and hesitant fingers, smears the blood that pooled in the shallow dip above his split lip.

"Hurts," he murmurs when he opens his eyes. Even in the dim light—a reading lamp in the living room is on, casting warm shadows across the masculine furniture and clean, open space—you can see how blue his eyes are. It reminds you of the summer sky when you were a child, when you hiked your cotton _yukata_ up to your bony knees and played with the servants' children.

You hate being reminded.

"It's only going to get worse, baby," you purr. He licks his lips in anticipation, pupils blown wide from his slight concussion and the pheromones rolling off your tight skin. You grin at the stupid expression on his handsome, bruised face and carelessly slice your claws down his thighs. His big hands stumble across the tatters of his jeans, struggling to remove the clothing when two of his fingers are sprained and stiff.

"Please?" he whines when his wriggling lends no results. "Please Daken, pl—"

You backhand him the transgression of speaking your name so brutally you hear his cheekbone crack. He gasps in pain but his hips arch, his cock fat beneath his dark briefs. There's a wet spot on the fabric.

"What a fuckin' cockslut," you hiss as you remove his jeans with a harsh and uncaring yank, followed quickly by his briefs. His hard dick slaps against his belly and the smell is heavy and disgusting in your nose. "I wonder if anyone else knows how you fuckin' gag for dick and pain, how bad you wanna get fucked."

He whines: high, sharp, and needy.

"Do the others know?" you snarl as you nearly tear the button from your own jeans. "Do they know that the untouchable and unbreakable Captain America, brave and perfect, is a fuckin' faggot? That he begs for any cock that he sees? Come on, you fuckin' whore, tell me!"

The naked man chokes instead of answering. His huge, muscular body undulates and writhes on the cold ground, his fingers and toes scrambling for purchase. Bloody lines from your claws run over his body, from sternum to navel and cross-hatched across his thighs. You dig a thumbnail into a cut near his femoral artery; it isn't deep but blood pools easily over your thumb. His eyes roll back into his head.

You push your thumbnail in deeper.

"Fuckin' come on," you goad as you force his heavy thighs wide and slide between them. "Say it, bitch."

A deep moan rattles behind his teeth. Even with your pheromones pumping out and forcing a deluge of endorphins and epinephrine into his arteries, the pain from his broken cheekbone makes it difficult to say anything. You can see that he wants to, though, the muscles in his jaw and throat working experimentally over two desperate words.

" _Fuck me,_ " he slurs.

A triumphant laugh jumps out of your mouth and your hands are suddenly underneath his knees, where the flesh is soft and vulnerable. You push and push until his patellae are by his ears and the dusky pink of his hole is exposed. Throwing his calves over a shoulder, you force him to remain bent in two as you spit into your hand and barely slick your aching dick. When you push the purpling head against his hole, he keens and the puckered rim trembles.

"That's right, baby," you soothe mockingly. "Don't you worry; daddy's gonna fuck you stupid."

His ass is so tight it nearly hurts, the initial push barely eased by your thin saliva. Regardless, you shove in and in until your hips are flush with the meaty curve of his thighs. He tries to breath but the weight of your body pinning him to the floor and the sharp shock won't let him. For the first time since your pheromones seized his mind, his blue eyes are clear, wiped temporarily sane by the agony of being split open on your cock. If you were a kinder man, you would wait for him to adjust.

You're not a kind man. You don't wait.

You drag your dick out almost entirely before grinding ruthlessly back in. You roll your hips with the ease of practice and instinct. He feels so good around you; the heat of him scorches and his tightness offers pleasure and pain like the threat of a razor blade. He's a complete and utter wreck. His short blond hair is a mess of spikes and the blood from his broken nose is drying on his chin and congealing in the hollow of his throat. Every thrust forces a pathetic grunt from his throat and, despite everything, he's as hard as you are.

"Do you know—what I think?" you hiss as you pump into him mercilessly. The vice grip you have on his trim hips will leave a perfect set of bruises. "I think you—like this—you fuckin' get off—on cocks—on _pain_ —"

Then the goody-goody, All-American poster boy you're fucking looks at you with his perfect blue eyes and cries shamefully, "Yes, _yes—_ "

This is what does you in. You come with a satisfied grunt and a maniac smile that bares all your vicious teeth, jerking your hips as you fill him. He comes a moment after you without his dick being touched once. The knowledge that Captain America, bruised and bloody on his apartment floor, gets off on pain and moans like a whore makes you laugh and laugh and laugh.

After you pull out of him, you give yourself a moment to admire the way your come squelches out of his abused hole and dribbles down his crack, inhaling the base smell of blood and sweat and semen.

When the image is burned into your brain, you push his legs off your shoulder and ignore the soft moan he makes when they crack on the hardwood floor. You reel in your pheromones and lock them tightly inside your body; you stand, shake the stiffness from your thighs, and tuck your dick back into your jeans; you wipe your bloody palms over the dark denim and watch gleefully as the euphoria on Steve Roger's face fades into comprehension.

"Da—ahh!" He hisses as the pain your pheromones blocked suddenly synapse through his brain. His spine arches, a parody of the pleasure he displayed minutes ago. The come splattered across his abdomen gleams in the lamplight. "Daken!"

You kick him in the ribs for using your name. He grunts at the sharp blow; you wonder how much of the pain he can actually feel, considering the amount of damage you've done. You're a little impressed that he hasn't passed out from his injuries and the exertion of sex but, judging by the way he can barely lift his head to look at you, he won't be conscious for long.

"The one and only," you reply as you crouch beside him. He doesn't flinch away from you when you grab a fistful of his hair. His right eye is completely swollen shut. "Now, since I've done you a favor and fucked your tight cunt silly, can you do something for me?"

He doesn't spit in your face nor does he tell you to go fuck yourself. He just stares at you with a disappointed scowl on his face. You're sure the glare would have its desired, reprimanding effect if you didn't want your biological father's bloody death or if you hadn't watched your foster father spill his shamed and suicidal intestines across a _tatami_ floor when you were eleven; as it is, you don't give a flying fuck about approval from authority figures. In fact, it's quite the opposite, and you sneer in reply and force his neck at an awkward angle, pressing your mouth against the cold curve of his ear to whisper:

"Tell daddy-dearest I said hello."

Then you get up, and leave without looking back.


End file.
